


The Legend of Durin III: The Book of Durin

by Scribe_of_Erebor



Series: The Legend of Durin [3]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 08:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5040850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scribe_of_Erebor/pseuds/Scribe_of_Erebor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the celebrations of seven years of peaceful rule in Khazad-dum commence, the memories of the crucial part played in Middle Earth history by those bearing the name of Durin press close.<br/>Updates on Sundays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When Durin awoke and walked alone

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

The Book of Durin

_Historian’s Note: This manuscript is a direct translation from notes written during interviews with Durin VII. Due to the multiple languages common among the dwarrow, some explanation is needed. The historically common spoken language of each race is denoted by the standard “speaker marks”, spoken Khuzdul with "bold within speaker marks” (when different from the regularly spoken language of the time) and the sign language Iglishmêk with ‘single speaker marks’. Except for unique place and proper names, all racial languages have been translated to Common Westron. Text that takes place in the present time is in italics, and marked with the countdown to Durin’s Day._

_This is a continuation of the translated tales of the Durins, which was begun with the Legend of Durin and Legend of Durin II: Return to Khazad-dûm. It is not necessary to read those manuscripts, though familiarity with them would be helpful. For non-dwarrow readers unversed in Middle Earth history, the following guide is given for the lives of the seven Durins._

_Durin I (the Deathless) – Early First Age to about 590  
He vanished in the final battle against Morgoth, presumed slain, though a body was never located._

_Durin II (the Mithril Lord) – Second Age 600 to Second Age 1421_  
Thrice great-grandson of Durin I  
Aid Frér (1329-1421) 

_Durin III (the Elf Friend) – Second Age 1227 to Second Age 1821_  
Grandson of Durin II  
Given the Greatest Ring of the Seven by Celebrimbor 

_Durin IV (the Iron Hand) – Second Age 3277 to Third Age 233  
Led the Khazad through the Last Alliance and the defeat of Sauron_

_Durin V (the Wise) – Third Age 1159 to Third Age 1829  
Murdered by his son (Durin VI) over leadership of Khazad-dûm_

_Durin VI (the Fallen) – Third Age 1731 to Third Age 1980  
Killed by the Balrog his greed had awoken beneath Khazad-dûm_

_Durin VII (the Last) – Third Age 2746 to Third Age 2941 / Fourth Age 1 to Present_  
Originally called Thorin Oakenshield (though this is becoming little known throughout the non-Khazad kingdoms)  
Killed at the Battle of the Five Armies and revived after the Fall of Sauron through the power of the Arkenstone 

_-Ori I, Ancient LoreKeeper of Khazad-dûm  
-Ori II, Son of Nori, Scribe of Erebor_

_**Fourth Age, 21** _

_**Seven years after the War Under the Mountains, the Retaking of Khazad-dûm** _

_**Fourteen Days before Durin’s Day** _

_**Chapter 1: When Durin awoke and walked alone** _

_Thorin Oakenshield, now known to most as Durin VII, watched the preparations below in both excited anticipation and nervousness. Seven years… Had it already been so long that he ruled here, in the ancient kingdom of Khazad-dûm? It seemed mere weeks ago that the final battle with the cult had been waged, leaving only the remnants to be found and destroyed after their leader fell; Frérin, his own brother, thought lost long ago in the last battle of the Dwarf-Orc Wars, but captured and tainted instead, twisted into a foul caricature of his former self. History, at least, would record only that the cult leader Naragal fell here, the foul name he had taken among his followers, and that the younger exiled prince of Erebor was burned many years earlier, ashes scattered with honor in the Kheled-zâram. The few who knew otherwise would never speak of it lest they bring down the wrath of Durin upon themselves. All that, however, did not stop the hurt as Thorin’s hand worried at a scar in the stone balcony rail where a weapon had bounced off it in that horrific battle._

_“You’re stewing again.”_

_That blunt assessment brought a slight mocking smile to Thorin’s lips as he turned to greet one of only two dwarrow regularly in the city who could speak to him in such a way._

_“And do I not have cause? Seven years, my friend, and in a few weeks it could all be undone if the other families withdraw their support for my rule.”_

_“You know better than I how seldom such a thing has happened in our history. Let alone to one of the Durins. Few could have done as much as you in so short a time, restoring so much of a city left to ruin for over a thousand years. I think that the only one who doubts your abilities is yourself, Thorin.”_

_There was a sharp note of anger and disgust in the warrior’s tone, making Thorin turn to fully face him. Einarr met his gaze fearlessly, showing none of the submission the other’s rank would normally require. Dwarrow did not easily bow to any, even those who had their respect, a directness that some among the other races misunderstood, though all would give way to Durin Returned. Whether he required it or not was a sign of how much in the king’s favor the other was, and how absolute his rule._

_“Is that why Dwalin sent you up here instead of coming himself? Because he does not wish to listen to my worries again?”_

_Einarr snorted, rolling his eyes as he joined his king at the rail._

_“No, he did not trust himself not to hit you if you started up again. Besides, the stairs are hard upon creaky old bones.”_

_That, at least, earned a laugh from Thorin._

_“I dare you to say such a thing within his hearing, and find out how decrepit he truly is when he comes after you with his axes! His brother, Balin, too, was often mistaken by foes as being too old to effectively fight. Most did not live long enough to regret that miscalculation.”_

_Balin, who had reigned in Moria for so short a time; who should have stood at Thorin’s right hand when the crown at last rested upon his head. Instead, his oldest friend and mentor slept in a stone tomb in one of the rooms above them, unable to even rest with his ancestors when he had fallen, for the deeps had still been controlled by orcs, trolls, and goblins. Thorin had chosen not to move the tomb, allowing it to serve as a memorial not only to Balin, but to all who fell with him and whose bodies were never recovered during Moria's endless years of darkness. He could only hope that the older dwarf understood and approved. Thorin did not realize how long the silence had stretched until Einarr clapped a hand on his shoulder, startling him from the growing gloom._

_“Come, if all you can do is stand here and chip at problems that do not exist, then walk with me.”_

_“I was informed most respectfully that my presence would better serve elsewhere than in the center of the preparations for the celebrations.”_

_Thorin told the other drily, still a bit miffed at his steward’s careful dismissal of the royal person. Apparently, he had been more of a hindrance with his suggestions than a help. The problem was that almost all of the kingdom was in the middle of such things, with guests already starting to arrive to celebrate his rule, so there was nowhere for him to go. Even his study had been appropriated as the main planning room. For something being held in his honor, he felt distinctly left out!_

_“I can imagine.” Einarr chuckled, not bothering to hide his own exasperation with Mikr. The Stonefoots tended to be fussy to a fault sometimes, and one trained to oversee the day to day operations of a kingdom was the worst of the lot. “Some of the children have been asking about the festivities. They do not understand how you could be king for seven years, and yet the other Families could still vote against you. Nor why Durin’s Day is so important.”_

_Thorin’s eyebrow shot up as he descended the stairs and cut across the secondary hall before heading for the learning room._

_“You wish me to spend my time telling stories to children?”_

_Einarr shrugged as Dwalin fell in step with them, Thorin’s shield brother answering in his stead._

_“You’ve got nothin’ else with the normal meetings and such all cancelled for the celebrations. Besides, what better time is there to speak of Durin?”_

_"Or better person?"_

_Einarr murmured, ducking from Thorin's reflexive elbow._

**Years of the Trees, prior to the First Age, about year 1105**

Durin woke alone, long before the awakening of the first men in Middle Earth marked the beginning of the First Age, but after the elves were well established, as Illuvatar was a jealous creator, allowing none to come before his beings of light. There was as yet no day or night, a long twilight shrouding the misty lands as unseen hands shaped the world to be, drawing up mountains in one realm only to lay them flat in another. Eventually, however, the Valar were pleased with what had been brought about and stayed their hand, allowing plant life to flourish. Trees grew and soon animals both large and small wandered in the twilight realm of the elves. That is, until a new footstep was heard, heavy and solid, unlike the almost ethereal scamper of the Firstborn. The being who emerged from the shadows of Mount Gundabad was nothing they had seen before, that much was certain, for Mahal had grown jealous of Illuvatar's elves. His creation was nothing like that of his elder brother, being of the earth; of metal, stone, and water instead of the stars, wind and light.

Durin was tall, over five foot, with long hair as black as the darkness from which his race had come, and eyes as blue as sapphires. Behind him was a vast chamber of carven stone, beautiful in the simplicity of its lines and gleaming columns, yet deceptive in the wealth hidden behind those stone walls. In time, Mahal taught Durin how to unearth such treasures, guiding his hands in the first fumbling steps of forging or shaping each new material. Mahal, however, wished to create others so that Durin would not be alone and left, sending two of his servants, Maia called Mairon and Curumo, to educate Durin further. 

Some years later, Mahal returned and told him of others like him, but none could truly rival Durin. Unlike Gundabad, the materials Mahal found in the far west and east were plentiful, but flawed. He could not teach them all that Durin had so easily mastered, instead giving each of his six new creations only a single piece of the whole. At this news, Mairon had sneered, saying that without perfection, there was not a purpose to their existence, but Mahal gently chided his servant, sending him back to the Undying Lands without further thought, a mistake that would cost Middle Earth dearly in the years to come.

Far to the southeast, where mountains smoked with un-quenching fire, was Blacklock, so called for his dusky skin and hair the color of coal, the rock from which he was forged. It was to his eyes and those of his kin that Mahal gave the visions of what might be, and the ability to read the signs all around them, for they would one day live upon the threshold of the enemy. Blacklock learned to delve deep within the stone, shaping and guiding, hiding and protecting, making doors that not even other dwarrow could detect unless he wished it so. He became a jealous father, holding fast to his people and all that they discovered, sharing only grudgingly. These dark dwarrow learned to rely only upon themselves, looking upon all others with suspicion, intolerant even of the differences in their own.

With him was Stonefoot, whose boot steps could quake the very mountains, exposing the value hidden within, though it took long to convince Blacklock of that. Driven together by need, they began to forge crude iron, beating back the wilderness and teaching the great wolves to fear their might. Their weapons were crude, for it was not to them that the mastery of the forge was given. Food was scarce, a land of predators in which the weak did not long survive, and so both dwarrow fathers learned to value strength above all else. It was a hard existence, unforgiving, but they held fast, wresting every drop of usable metal that they could from the earth, comfortable, but never rich. At least, until a darker power cast an endless shadow upon their lands, driving them deep into the mountains where few could find their hidden strongholds.

To their north, in the ice and cold of the endless grey ridges, came Ironfist, with strength unmatched in his mighty fists. To him was revealed the tactics of war, creating machines of destruction and holding off the enemy. This included the use of flax to create tough clothing suitable for their harsh environment and powders that flashed and exploded when exposed to flame. And Ironfist soon had need of these lessons for he was paired with Stiffbeard, whose mastery was shaping the gems of the earth until they sparkled like the great icicles on the mountain above. So great were their riches, however, that they had reason to fear the envy of Stonefoot and Blacklock. War erupted in the east as the dwarrow fought for supremacy, splitting north and south in jealousy and hatred.

Displeased, Mahal turned then to the west, where material was not as plentiful, but also perhaps not so deeply flawed. From Ered Luin, the Blue Mountains, came Firebeard, beard and temper blazing as he woke with a roar. So great was the noise that the elves who had settled to the south feared some fell beast of evil sorcery had awoken. Fearful of Melkor's treachery, they ventured forth with arrows already set to bow string, firing at the first sight of a strange, squat hairy creature. This angered Firebeard greatly and he also attacked upon sight of the tall, gangly, pale hunters. So it was that the First and Second born avoided one another in fearful secrecy for many years, killing one another without remorse or thought. 

_**Fourth Age, 21** _

_**Fourteen Days before Durin’s Day** _

_Thorin Oakenshield, known as Durin VII, paused in his recitation of the ancient tale, gazing around at his audience. The little ones were wrapped up in their attention to the story, of course, but even the adults behind them had stopped their whispered conversations, eyes locked upon the teller._

_How different might their relations with the elves had been had it not started with such fear? It did not help that the few dwarrow bold enough to come near the elves in the next uncounted years were those cast out and cursed by a jealous and enraged Blacklock, reduced to little more than animals. It was to the everlasting shame of the race that the so-called petty dwarves had existed at all, let alone set the tone for the relations with the elves. That, however, was a tale for a different time, especially as even Durin knew only what his eastern brothers had told him of their original crimes, much of which he suspected was not true.  
And speaking of truth, would any in the room believe him if he spoke the words of the actual first meeting between Durin and Firebeard, blazing to life in his mind as if it were yesterday? _

A roar woke Durin from slumber one day, and his hand tightened instinctively about his ax as he hauled himself to his feet, making his way through the empty halls to the door leading from the mountain. Mahal had warned him that company was coming, but had refused further details, leaving the dwarf wary. From the west came a giant of a dwarf, red beard and hair bristling like fire. Firebeard, the second of the dwarf fathers, and his wife, whose braids gleamed with citrine and ruby. 

"Ho, Brother! Care for a dice game? How about a little wager? And ale! I have a fresh keg."

Durin was intrigued, welcoming them with fresh venison and crisp red apples, but was puzzled by his brother's talk of money and wagers.

"What are dice? And what is a wager?"  
Firebeard grinned, letting out a booming laugh as he threw a small, clinking leather pouch onto the table and rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation.

"Let me show you."

_One corner of Thorin’s mouth quirked up as he suppressed a snort. No, best not to upset the more conservative of his councilors any more than he already had. With a mental sigh, he resumed the tale in the proper traditional form, though the first sentence he uttered would not be found upon any dwarrow scroll._

**Years of the Trees, about 1250**

This was to the detriment of both races, for to Firebeard was given the mastery of fire, making it burn hot and true in the forges of those he called brother. Gold and silver, iron and copper, all called to him, allowing him to twist and shape them to whatever his mind could conceive of, even mocking the intricate designs of his elven neighbors. He would often leave these trinkets where the tall, pointy-eared beings were sure to find them, then watched, laughing, as they tried in vain to puzzle out the origins of the pieces. After all, the primitive, hairy creatures that the elves sometimes hunted for sport could certainly never create such wonders! It was only the elves' shaping of the sparkling stones that he could not match, though they called to him in a voice that would have consequences for both races even Blacklock did not foresee.

With him, of course, was Broadbeam, strong and quick of mind. It was he who knew where to find the metals Firebeard needed and how to coax them from the earth without the fearful collapses suffered by others, making complex machines that groaned and moved seemingly on their own. Not content with such mundane tasks, however, Broadbeam was an experimenter, never tiring of twisting and mixing, coaxing and testing the very limits of the metals. It was he who found the methods by which weapons were made stronger and lighter, holding their edge long after others had become useless.

Then Mahal spoke to them, urging them to meet with their four brothers from the east, to aid them in laying aside their enmity and prosper together. So the first dwarrow laws were laid down, tradition and form blunting the deep rage of the earth born, who, like the stone, would not easily give way. Together, the six held a mastery of the wealth of the earth and its forging that was unequalled. Or so they, in their arrogance, assumed. They were soon joined by six dwarrowdams, sturdy and strong, but fairer of face and voice, a gift from Yavanna to Mahal, that this race he had forged might grow and prosper. But all overlooked the one who woke first and alone, deep under the spine of the world, at Gundabad.

Durin.

In him was all the skill and wisdom of his brothers combined, should he but learn to unlock it. To do this, however, he stayed apart from them some years, craving the solitude so that he might hear the words of the mountains and learn the secrets of the stone. In the endless twilight that was the Years of the Trees, time had little meaning to the mighty smith as he forged and shaped, mined and studied the crystals as they grew. 

Finally, however, he knew that it was time when others besides his brothers began to find their way to him, cast out by other dwarrow for one perceived transgression or another. The misfits and misunderstood, the imperfect, and those who needed only a firm hand to find their way to a better life’s path, these came searching in ones, twos and threes, drawn by the tales of the Father who lived alone, making such wondrous items. Unlike the other Fathers, he welcomed them, sitting many a night in the halls of Gundabad and listening to their tales, learning what they were skilled at and where their weaknesses lie. As he had spent so many years alone, so he understood their own sorrows, welcoming where others scorned. Some had lost limbs to various accidents, while others were born different, with skills or looks that were un-dwarrow. Some just could not live where they were, the abused and broken. 

Durin took them all in with but one firm rule- do not judge. He knew that Mahal had not been able to make him a dwarrowdam, so if he wished a people of his own, they would be created from the cast-offs of his younger brothers. He, being complete, did not become jealous or fear the differences of others; they were not a threat to him. He gathered them all, instead, combining dwarrow like raw materials in ways not even Broadbeam's clever mind could follow.

When his brothers heard the news, they scoffed, making their way north to Gundabad to see this disaster for themselves. What they found both awed and angered them, and they lashed out at Durin, trying to shame him into changing his plan.

“You cannot make a people out of such slag and impure material, brother!” Blacklock warned, shaking his head as a sneer twisted his lips, deliberately tripping the clubfooted dwarrowdam who brought ale to them. “Surely, if you are that desperate to begin your own kingdom, we could spare a few of our own to aid you.”

Durin snorted, resisting the temptation to roll his eyes at his brother even as he stepped between the other dwarf and the dam.

“Oh? And who would you give me? Those who would spy upon my doings and sell my secrets, as they do in the other kingdoms? Warriors who will wait to seize what is not theirs the moment my back is turned? No, brother, I do not need that kind of help.”

Face darkening with anger, Blacklock swept from the halls with his entourage so quickly that he did not notice that his youngest daughter, shyly pressed against the wall, did not come with. Scowling, Durin caught the eye of the dam who had been serving them, receiving a nod in reply. The girl would be looked after if she chose to stay. Stonefoot, the quietest of the brothers, shook his head sorrowfully, but soon clomped away as well. Firebeard scowled, letting out a bark of mocking laughter.

“My beard will be long indeed, brother, before your kingdom prospers with such as these as its base.”


	2. The road is now calling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Durin I seeks out a new land for his people and Melkor grows stronger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

**Chapter 2: The road is now calling**

**_Fourteen Days before Durin’s Day_ **

_“And so it was that Durin’s Folk took the name of ‘Longbeard’ as their own, a mix of all the different clans. They prospered, each addition adding his or her mastery to the well-being of the kingdom, for they knew what it was to be outcast. Durin wed the daughter of Blacklock, as she chose to stay, far from the scorn of a father with so many sons that he did not need a female child to take up the roles of politics and diplomacy. After all, what could a mere 'dam know of such things?”_

_Thorin smiled to himself in satisfaction as he heard the scandalized murmurs from some of the audience at such an idea. The western dwarrow, at least, knew better than to try restricting their dams from anything they wished to do, though the very survival of their race had dictated that most did not fight openly as soldiers anymore. Rohan and the elven kingdoms were the only others that Thorin knew of to practice such openness, mostly for defense, though Gondor was slowly changing. Arwen was not one to confine herself to any ‘proper role’ should she decide it restricted what she wished to do. Last Thorin had heard, this was coming as quite the shock to some of Aragorn’s nobles._

_He knew that the stories he told now were considerably romanticized, but so was much that was allowed to be heard by young ears. They would not understand that Durin had first turned away those who became the petty dwarves, unwilling to interfere with the rule of his brother. After all, they had been responsible for the death of Blacklock’s wife, no matter that Durin suspected it had truly been a tragic accident, not a cold-blooded assassination, as dwarrow histories even now told._

_Someday, he would have the time to write such things down, even if few would believe the truth. He snorted, drawing some puzzled looks from the children. Mahal knew, it was not that long ago that he was counted among that stubborn, ignorant number. Deliberately, he smiled down at the little flame-haired lass at his feet, ignoring the pointed ears and delicate features that once would have sent him into a rage. Not that he was so open with just any elf, especially the poncey lot in the Greenwood. No, he had simply learned to see a select few as individuals that he might actually get along with first, and elves second. It was a small change, really. Besides, who could resist the big green eyes and innocence of a child, no matter their race?_

_“What do you think, little Miss Ivorvir?”_

_The elfling, the first born in over three hundred years, grinned at the gruff king, not afraid of him in the least. To the daughter of Tauriel and Legolas, he was Uncle Torin, one in a list of monarchs her smile and bright laugh had charmed into becoming honorary kin, even when she mangled their names. Well, at least ‘Torin’ was better than ‘Agragon’!_

_“Tell us about coming here!”_

_“Ahh… A worthy story for a very worthy audience. Very well, little one.”_

_He did not, however, return his attention to the book in his lap. While very serviceable for most of the oldest stories, this was one tale where only the truth as he remembered it would do. Even as he spoke the first words, he could feel that part of himself that was ‘Thorin’ being set aside for Durin to speak of this, his earliest life._

_“It was after the awakening of men and the return of Melkor, called Morgoth by the elves, that Durin faced the growing darkness in the north with dismay.”_

_"NO!"_

_The roar erupted from the very back of the hall, where a short, stout figure pushed to the fore. It was Tirik, the King of the Stonefoots. Thorin stood, his voice deceptively soft as it was easily heard throughout the suddenly still hall._

_"Is there a problem, Stonefoot?"_

_The other king flushed at the petty insult of being addressed by clan instead of by name, but he did not allow it to distract him as Thorin had hoped. Instead, he pushed the rest of the way through the crowd to stand just behind the seated children. His lip curled in disgust at the sturdy hobbit lad nearest him, one foot drawing back as if to kick the boy out of the way._

_"If you value your life, do not complete that action, dwarf."_

_The warning came from an abnormally tall hobbit in the silver and black of Gondor, normally jovial face pinched in outrage. One hand rested upon the hilt of the blade at his hip, causing a stir among the watchers, though Thorin doubted it was the dwarf lord whose aid most would come to should steel be bared. Tirik growled low in his throat, but planted his foot back on the ground, addressing his fellow dwarrow monarch angrily._

_"You would tolerate such a threat against the Head of one of the Seven, Longbeard?"_

_Thorin's lips thinned, eyes glittering an icy blue._

_"To one who would harm a child, let alone that one? I will execute you myself should you so much as touch him, and none here would move to stop me." An angry murmur through the watchers confirmed the truth of that. By the absolutely dumbfounded look upon his face, Thorin was fairly certain the idiot did not know what he had just done. Finally, he took pity on the fool. "He is Frodo-lad, son of Lord Samwise the Brave, Hero to all free peoples of Middle Earth."_

_Tirik had the decency to blanch at that, stammering out a flustered apology. Too bad he did not stop with only one gaff._

_"You would dare to share our most sacred histories with outsiders? And change them! Durin himself decreed-"_

_That was one step too far. It was the outrage of six lifetimes that drew the king up, his anger almost physically visible in a cloud about him._

_"Do not speak to me of what I have decreed, arrogant **kakhf**."_

_The voice echoed, as if seven spoke as one, deep bass twining with lighter baritone to bounce off the stones and be heard throughout the great city. Several of the children cried out in alarm, curling into balls, and the little elf began to cry. Thorin blinked down at her, then his eyes softened and he bent, scooping her up before her mother could make her way to them._

_"It is alright, little ones, the rude dwarf will leave."_

_Hearing the quiet reassurance, the other adults in the crowd wasted no time in parting for some of Thorin's guard, allowing them to pull the pale, sputtering Tirik from the hall. Returning his attention to Ivovir, he tickled her with his beard, making the tears give way to a giggle. Suddenly weary, the weight of too many years pressing down upon him, the king settled back, keeping the child on his lap._

_"Now, where was I?"_

**First Age, 4**

Grunting, Durin leaned over the map spread out on the stone table, one blunt finger tracing the line of the mountains that split Middle Earth in two. The elves called them the Misty Mountains, though the dwarrow had another name for them- the Place of Awakening. Straightening back up, the king met the eyes of the dwarrow gathered there.

“We cannot stay here.”

The grim pronouncement was met mostly by nods, though a few looked ambivalent, including his son.

“We do not have to move, Father. We could close the gates, isolate ourselves. Melkor’s goblins cannot force our defenses.”

Nurin was a good lad, sturdy and an excellent warrior at just under one hundred years old, but there was much he had yet to learn. The Northlands had been growing darker every year as the corrupted Valar, Melkor, twisted more creatures to his own design, setting them upon any who resisted him. Goblins, orcs, foul trolls, giant intelligent wolves and great worms that could tunnel through even granite had been seen all too close to the dwarrow stronghold at Gundabad. With no other settlements of free peoples near to them, the Longbeards were too tempting of a target for Melkor to test his foul creations on. Every year, holding a secure route to the south became harder, requiring more warriors.

“And what then, lad? Our people cannot grow and prosper without the exchange of goods. No, far better for us to leave this place. It grows too small to hold our people, anyway, and Mahal whispers to me that there are secrets yet to be discovered in the earth if I but search for them.”

“The east is too harsh a land, with scarce resources. We cannot go that way.”

Unsurprisingly, it was his wife who gave that opinion. The Blacklock dam had grown in boldness and surety as she found her husband open to her opinions, even when he did not agree with them. Now, though, none would doubt one who had seen firsthand the hard life of the east.

“Well, we canna go west, either.” Iari, a Firebeard transplant, sounded disgusted. “That’s the center of the fighting. Not to mention those cursed elves.”

Durin instantly leveled a quelling glare at him, unwilling to reopen that particular mess at the moment. Around them, the earth shook, making even the sturdy, short dwarrow grasp at tables and chairs to keep their balance. Distantly through the rock walls, they heard the deep sound of a horn blown in alarm. Durin swore softly, jerking a head at one of the guards to go find out the situation before returning to their discussion. One blunt finger stabbed onto the map decisively, though he could not say why he was so certain.

“’Tis the spine of Middle Earth that will have a new home for us. Here, somewhere within the Misty Mountains.”

Torin, the first dwarf to join him, nodded, one hand sweeping back black hair now liberally streaked with silver, started to say something, then amended it at the look upon his monarch's face.

“Very well. I will let the guards know to prepare an expedition.”

“I will go with you, Father.”

“NO!” Durin had not meant for the word to explode so harshly from his mouth, wincing as his eldest son recoiled from him, but he had been unable to supress the instant sense of 'wrong' that accompanied the offer. “Sorry, lad, but I must go alone. It is the will of Mahal. And I need you here, along with your mother, to lead and protect our people.”

****88888****

His people watched, silent, as he left the next day with only a small pack upon his back and a great war ax on his shoulder. The preceding hours had been filled with shouting, threats, and even tears, but the dwarrow Father would not be swayed from his path. He knew it was the will of Mahal, and should he try taking another with him, it would serve only to sacrifice their life.

Such travel, however, was not lightly undertaken, especially alone, so he vowed to avoid what fights he could. Days turned to weeks, and still, Durin wandered, unsure of where his path would lead. It was not long after that before Durin encountered servants of Morgoth. True to his principles, he did not attack them, though the creatures were loathsome, twisted and diseased, with dark skin and a crooked, jerky gait. They, however, were not so polite, hooting and hollering as they swarmed him. The fighting lasted for several minutes, with Durin almost overwhelmed by his foes' sheer numbers several times, but the mighty smith began to prevail at last.

It was then, however, that fate took a hand in Durin's tale; the dwarf took a single step backward onto ground that crumbled at his weight, sending him rolling down the hillside. Loose rock began to slide with him, and soon he was surrounded by boulders rolling and jumping, threatening to smash the smith. The pack was torn from his back, the ax almost opening new wounds, then his head hit something harder than it, and he knew no more.

***Durin gasped in surprise as he found himself standing upon stars and air instead of solid ground, the light glowing a flickering red on his right. Clang! The sound of a mighty hammer echoed all around, a sound so pure and strong that he could almost see it, causing the stars to shimmer and wink.**

**“You stand in my forge, my son. I have brought you here to give guidance. Seek a place where the waters are clean and pure, but black, and my stars reflect in them even by day. There you will find a place to bring your people, protected and rich in all you need.”***

**_Twelve Days before Durin’s Day_ **

_"Khazad-dûm! Mahal tells him how to come here!"_

_The breathless exclamation from a dwarfling with a bristling red beard brought a gleam of approval to Thorin's blue eyes, but before he could continue, another voice rang through the room._

_"Lord Durin!"_

_Thorin broke off his narrative, head jerking around to locate the source of the call. It was one of the younger sentries, face flushed from running in full armor. The king’s heart leapt into his throat. Watchers had been set to all the walls, as the caravan arriving from Erebor had been two days overdue with no word as to why._

_"What is it?"_

_He did not bother keeping his voice down, knowing the information would be spreading through the city soon enough, anyway. Dwarrow were almost as fond of gossip as hobbits._

_"A pony in the princes’ pack train from Erebor spooked. There are injured!"_

_The king never noticed the heavy tome hitting the floor as he ran from the hall._


	3. A Crown of Stars in Waters Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which injuries are assessed and Durin finds a home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.
> 
> AN: Hmm… Did I say I would post on Sunday? Sorry about being a bit late this week, everyone.

**Chapter 3: A Crown of Stars in Waters Deep**   
_  
It did not take Thorin long to locate the hive of activity in the healer's wing, nor to find young Kifir, Kili's main aid, who stood with Ori, white faced and still shaking. That he did not see any of his blood kin only heightened the worry._

_"How are they?"_

_“My Lord, we know nothing for certain yet, the healers still work.”_

_It was only because it was Ori that Thorin bit back the response he wanted to snarl out. He knew it had taken time to bring in the wounded and limping remains of the caravan, and now more time as the healers puttered about! Could no one give him answers as to what had happened?_

_“Thorin! I have only just heard, and with your permission, I will aid your healers.”_

_Thorin felt just a bit of lightness lift him at the sound of that steady voice, turning gratefully to give a solemn nod to Aragorn Elessar, Lord of Gondor and Arnor. The other king must have arrived on the heels of the princes, as Thorin had not heard the welcoming horns, nor had his seneschal at his side, wringing hands about his king being 'unceremonious.'_

_“Forgive me for not being at the gate to greet you-“_

_Long ingrained courtesies were not easily set aside, so Thorin mouthed the polite words, though both monarchs knew he lied. With his family injured, he did not care if it were Mahal himself coming to call, his place was here. Aragorn’s hand cut through the air, dismissing the unneeded apology._

_"Does anyone know what happened?"_

_Kifir grimaced, giving the king of men a low bow before answering him._

_"A snake, I think; I didn't get a good look. About two hours ago, I think. Sapphire is as placid a pony as they come, and she bolted as if wargs were on her tail. Took the wagon with it, right into Prince Kili's pony, before he was able to grab the harness and stop them. Both Princess Vestri and Prince Fíli were thrown to the ground. Little Princess Kala was bounced around in the wagon itself."_

_Thorin immediately paled. Kili's wife was eight months pregnant, a time in which many dwarrowdams still traveled with little difficulty, but such an accident could easily kill both mother and unborn child. Without another word, Aragorn took his satchel from his wife, Arwen, and disappeared through the nearest door, leaving the others to wait for uncounted minutes in tense silence._

_"Thorin!"_

_The king straightened at the call, grateful to see his oldest nephew's wife, Austri. He simply opened his arms, engulfing the 'dam when she was close enough and held her as her tears soaked the fabric of his clothing. If there was one major difference between the old Thorin and now, besides being more tolerant to elves, it was that he knew now how to at least marginally handle such emotional situations. Perhaps it was all the practice the other Durins had had! Finally, she sniffed, red rimmed eyes finding his._

_"Vestri was thrown outright from the wagon, along with Fíli. He did what he could but it was so fast! She hit her head hard on a rock, then rolled onto her stomach. Fíli’s forearm is broken clean through where he managed to protect the babe in the initial impact, but no one knows if it will be enough! She will not wake!"_

_It took a great deal of force to break a dwarf's bones, especially the skull. If Vestri was still unconscious, there might be a fracture…_

_"And Kala?"_

_Thorin asked in barely a whisper. Any of the earlier listed injuries would be enough for the tears, but if the little dwarfling was bounced around badly enough... Austri managed a tiny smile._

_"Bruised and hysterical. She’s barely said a word since it happened, just screams when anyone touches her. Fíli and I wanted the healers here to check her. They're waiting for a tonic to take effect to do anything else, so they’re checking Fíli’s arm and kicked me out. Kili's with him."_

_That provoked a faint smile. Where else would Kíli ever be but at Fili's side?_

_"The boys?"_

_Austri plopped down on the nearest seat with a little laugh that was very close to another sob._

_"Fine. Or as fine as they can be with so much stress and no rest. Fílan was riding with Kíli, so the healers want to check him out just to be sure, and Kílan won't leave his cousin, of course."_

_"Then breathe, Austri, and rest."_

_The ‘dam’s eyes widened in further distress, instead, a hand biting into Thorin’s arm. A flaming red haired head dropped wearily to his shoulder._

_"I was so scared, Thorin. All I could think of was that the last words I said to him were angry."_

_"Oh?"_

_The king was careful to make the single syllable as nonjudgmental as possible, unwilling to step into the middle of a marriage dispute, though it was usually Kíli whose tongue led him to trouble, not Fili._

_"He told Kílan he could ride with Kifir, and I thought it would be safer if he stayed in the wagon. That's why I was riding; I wanted to keep an eye on them. As if I didn't know by now that I could trust Kifir with my son's life! If I had been in the wagon where I belonged, perhaps I could have-"_

_“No!” Thorin was quick to cut off that line of thought, too familiar himself with the effects of such self-condemnation. “It was an accident, nothing more. You could not have known what would occur, and you might have been killed yourself.”_

_Tears were soaking into the shoulder of his tunic, but at least his marriage-niece did not dispute him further. She finally broke the silence with a tearful murmur that carried through the small room._

_"I owe Kifir and Fíli both apologies. I’ve not had the courage to say it to them yet."_

_The young aid had been pretending not to listen, but he spun around and hit his knees in front of the princess._

_"You owe me nothing, Lady Austri! I'm only sorry I could not do more to aid when it happened, but we were too far behind."_

_Thorin found himself losing the thread of the conversation as the two younger dwarrow vied with one another for who owed whom an apology, truly. Instead, he was drawn back to the memories of that first Durin, and the years he, too, spent separated from family._  
  
**First Age, 11**

Durin had few pleasant memories of the years that he wandered, endlessly searching; now, seven years after he had begun, he even started to question whether Mahal had spoken to him at all. How many rivulets of water had he followed through these mountains, slowing making his way ever south? Thank Mahal his bones were as strong as the stone from which they were made, or he would have broken them long ago, he had fallen so many times. 

Eyes narrowed, he sighted his crude arrow, held ready upon a much battered bow, waiting for the deer to take a single step further forward. Before he could release, however, a roar resounded off the mountains, putting the entire herd to flight. The dwarf spun, and almost lost his arrow at the sight of his new foe. It was a bear, but larger than any he had ever seen, charging down upon him with snarling lips and enraged eyes. With a swipe of its massive paw, the bow in his hands was reduced to kindling and he was sent head over heels into the brush. 

With a bellow of his own, Durin leapt to his feet, hands gripping the mighty war ax as he faced down the beast. The two circled one another wearily, then the dwarf managed to land the flat of the blade against the beast's skull, dazing it. Before he could close for a killing blow, however, the thing began to almost blur, seeming to reshape itself. Durin closed his eyes, shaking his head as if that had some chance of clearing his vision, only to gasp when he reopened them. Before him was the naked form of a being very much like to himself, only much, much larger. Long hair ran down his back, and a bristly beard enveloped most of his face, giving the look of the beast to him, but the hands were definitely not claws and the feet would not be mistaken for those of a bear. What sorcery was this? Some new creature of Melkor?

"You would do well to leave before he awakens. He does not care for those who hunt the animals he protects."

Startled, the king stared at the dark haired being who had silently stepped from the woods to watch him curiously. He was tall and so spindly that one heavy blow from Durin's hammer would probably break the creature in half, and when he turned his head, delicately pointed ears were revealed. An elf, then; that did not, however, explain the beast laying in the dirt.

"Who is he?" The dwarf asked.

"To my kindred, he is known as _Beligbrog_ , the Great Bear. We know not what he calls himself, for he does not seek out others, preferring the company of the beasts of the mountains. If you leave those in his domain alone, he will not bother you; but should you disregard this warning, he will make a formidable enemy."

"Hmph. And you are?"

The elf laughed, light and merry.

"I am known as Eöl, you are Durin, and we still should not linger further. Come. There is a stream where we can refresh ourselves nearby, but beyond the boundaries of the bear."

Curious, Durin found himself watching this tall being as they walked, the words of his brothers about the race running over and over in his head.

'Overbearing?' Perhaps, though he would have reacted the same in such a situation. 'Arrogant'? That one had yet to be seen. There was true arrogance and then there was the pardonable pride of someone who is exceptionally good at something and knows it. As they finally slowed to a stop, taking seats on an old log next to the snowmelt stream, he found himself unable to contain his curiosity any further.

"So, you're an elf."

"What an amazing observation! I had not realized! Does that make you a dwarf, then?"

Durin snorted, leveling a glare at the other.

“You also have a pert mouth.”

The elf simply laughed, a silvery sound quite unlike the hearty guffaws of the dwarrow.

“So I have been told by your brothers, many times, a thing my kin are too polite to say. Perhaps that is why I enjoy the company of your people more than my own.”

“Ahhh…”

The pieces suddenly forged themselves together in Durin’s mind. So this was the one called the “dark elf” by his people, the one who loved the song of hammer and iron more than the melodies of flute and harp, isolating himself in the forest of Nan Elmoth in Beleriand. It was said that he was good friends with Firebeard and Broadbeam both, aiding in negotiating the treaties between the elves and the dwarrow.

“And what would you be doing on this side of the mountains?”

Eöl shrugged, breaking off a piece of hard bread to share with the dwarf.

“Exploring. Searching for new metals.” Suddenly, he grinned again, a wicked gleam in his eye. “Avoiding my kin, who seem to believe that pestering me will change my ways. Looking for wandering dwarf kings.”

Durin grunted as he narrowed his eyes at the other, assessing. From all that his brothers said, this one was different from other elves, more open and honest. It would not hurt to learn what he could of the race, should he settle his people closer to them then they currently were. Hastily swallowing the last of the overly sweet bread he had been given, the dwarf grabbed up his pack and weapon, wishing he had some of his journey food left. The white mushroom might not taste the best, but it was filling enough, and stayed fresh for quite some time.

“Very well. We go that way.”

He flapped a hand negligently in the direction that the stream was running, oddly drawn to the water. Perhaps it was the shiny black stones that ran like a ribbon down the center of it, sparkling in the soft burble of the waters tumbling around them. It must have its start somewhere in the heights of the three massive peaks behind him, lone sentinels a head above the mountains surrounding them. It would be dark soon, and they would need shelter from the storm Durin could see gathering to the north.

Fortunately, two hours steady march found them at the base of the tallest peak as the rain began to fall around them. Eöl’s sharp eyes were the first to catch the dark opening that blended in with the shadows on the rock.

“There! A cave of some sort, I believe.”

“Good enough, so long as it does not already have a tenant.”

Durin gripped the dagger his new companion silently offered in one hand while easily sparking a torch to life with a snap of his fingers. Eöl’s eyebrows shot up at that little display of magic, though again the elf said nothing, a reticence that the dwarf deeply appreciated. A thrust of the firebrand inside, however, proved that the shallow cavern was uninhabited and just large enough for the two of them and a fire. Durin remained silent as he swept aside two places for sleeping, rolling out their bedrolls and stacking the wood he had been picking up along the way to one side. Behind him, Eöl had already begun a fire and had produced a pot from within the packs he carried, humming softly as he broke apart something and added it to the rain water he had already collected. The dwarf’s nose twitched in appreciation as a rich scent filled the air.

“I thought you lot did not eat meat.”

The elf’s laughter was bitterly mocking.

“That is but one difference between me and my kin, Durin-King. Though in truth, the High Elves will occasionally eat meat. It is our lesser kin of the woods who seem to find it offensive. They mock me and call me ‘dark elf’ for my tastes and my friendship with the dwarrow of **Gabilgathol** and **Tumunzahar**.” At seeing Durin’s shock at hearing the Khuzdul names of the western dwarrow capitals, the smile grew genuine. “Aye, I know much of your tongue. Come, we eat.”

After the satisfyingly rich meal, it did not take long for Durin to fall into slumber, weary with the long nights when he did not dare sleep unguarded, and so did not take rest at all. He did not hear the beginning of the storm, nor was it thunder that woke him from his dreams. No, it was a voice, calling in a deep rumble within the sounds of nature, and his heart could not resist. Stumbling, he left the cave, heedless of the startled call of his companion or the soaking water that soon saturated his clothing.

Perhaps a quarter mile from their place of rest was a pool, the stream that they had followed earlier pouring into it from a ledge of black rock twice Durin’s height, yet the waters showed no ripple. Not a single raindrop marred the still surface, and as the dwarf approached, he was astonished to see the stars reflected there, as if no cloud were in the night sky. To the right was the constellation of Yavanna’s fruit, lying flush with Illuvatar’s harp and Mandos’ scales; to the left lay Ulmo’s ship and Orome’s steed, Lady Nienna’s hand, then the hammer and forge of Mahal, and in the center…

He gasped, knees hitting the rocky shore with bruising force as he looked into his own eyes, a crown of seven stars about his head. Then the sky split open as a great bolt of lightning struck down in the center of the lake and Durin froze, anticipating his own death as his vision went as black as the night.

Gasping, Durin’s head broke the surface of the water and he tread there for a long moment, looking about in shock. How had he gotten here? And what had possessed him to do so in the midst of a lightning storm? Another flash of light, and he could just make out the silhouette of Eöl, standing upon the shore, staring out at him. Durin huffed, then began to drag his body forward, astonished to find that he wore nothing at all and bore a rough bag in one hand. Thankfully, the elf was waiting with a blanket, which he wrapped around the dwarf as he stared at him in stunned disbelief.

“What?” Durin snapped, shivering in the cold night air.

“How are you even alive?” Eöl whispered, awed. “When I touched the water, it burned like fire.”

The king sighed, settling down inside the cavern, close by a newly rekindled fire.

“You are of Illuvatar, my friend, and this is a place of Mahal. Those of us forged in fire and water of stone do not easily break, especially as this is the place I have been called to find. This will be the new home of my people.”

With that, he fell into slumber, and when he woke, the sun shone bright, the air warm and mild. Nearby, his discarded clothing from the night before was neatly folded, and he donned it, unheeding of his companion’s presence. His eyes met that of the elf and he nodded to himself, knowing now why he had been drawn to follow that stream. One hand plunged into the rough bag at his feet and he withdrew a black diamond, rough yet, but already showing the beauty it might have if properly cut. This, he held out to Eöl, the one elf he knew as a friend to his people.

“Here. It’s somehow fitting that the very first King’s Stone go to one not of the dwarrow, though I think Illuvatar may have allowed a bit of stone into the mix when you were created. Carry it as a symbol of my friendship.”

Eöl did not question the odd gesture, nor the strange words, instead accepting the gift with a solemn nod to the king. Somehow, Durin knew that this would be repeated upon the coronation of each king to rule here, for Mahal would always have a hand in selecting the king of Durin’s Folk.

Years of backbreaking work, grief, anger, the endless search, done now. Here would he rule now and always.

***You have done well, my son.***

Durin was not surprised to hear the voice whisper in his ear as he stepped outside and lifted a hand, calling a raven to him so that those who had been left behind could share in the triumph.


	4. Here at the gates the king awaits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Durin welcomes his first visitors to Khazad-dum and loyalties are questioned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

**Chapter 4: Here at the Gates the King awaits**

_**Twelve Days before Durin's Day** _

_"Is that really how Khazad-dûm was chosen?"_

_Thorin smiled at his grand-nephew's gasping, breathless exclamation. Kílan and Fílan were attentive listeners, but as with all small children, had a tendency to blurt out their thoughts without censure._

_"Indeed it is. And both of you bear the blood of Durin. My blood."_

_They were no longer in the healer's wing, instead seated in front of the fireplace in the royal family's quarters. Fíli and Kíli were stillat the healers', seeing to the other wounded, but had asked their uncle to take the boys away from the strained emotions of the place. Hence, Thorin found himself on child duty, distracting the older two children while Fíli put his young daughter to bed and the others saw to Vestri, who was still unconscious._

_The lads were a healthy, sturdy fourteen, about the same as a child of men at the age of six or seven. Their growth would continue to slow over the next decade, with a few spurts, though both would be their adult heights by about twenty-five or thirty. It was then that they would begin their training intensely, and be counted as an adult in limited ways until they reached full adulthood and independence at age seventy._

_It was a pattern of maturing that continued to cause consternation and uncertainty among most Men and even some elves, though the hobbits seemed to have little trouble with it. Thosefriendly beings simply shrugged and told any who asked that it was similar to a hobbit's tween years, just a bit longer._

_Strawberry blond and brunette heads rested upon his shoulders, almost too big now for him to hold this way. He hugged them to him, reveling in their presence and recalling similar nights with the dwarflings' fathers long ago. He was tempted to tell them the truth of what Mahal said next, mostly because it would disconcert those very fathers when repeated in the worst possible company and at the most inappropriate time, but he refrained. Perhaps later, when the drama had settled down, and they knew Vestri would be well, he would take his delayed revenge upon his sister-sons, for what curse was more potent than that of a parent wishing similar child rearing experiences on their children as they had suffered?_

_***"Now..." Mahal fixed the eldest dwarf Father with a stern, yet amused, glare. "Let us speak of these oaths that have become popular among your people involving certain of my body parts..."*** _

_"-cle? Uncle? May I ask you something?" The little blond tilted his head, trying to peer up into Thorin's face._

_"What is it, Fílan?"_

_The boy hid his face in Thorin's shoulder, his apprehensive whisper barely distinguishable._

_"Can you ask Mahal not to call Mama and the baby to him? I need her here. Please?"_

_At hearing his cousin's words, Fíli's son, Kílan, also burrowed into the rich fur of Thorin's robe, sniffling a bit. The king sighed, hugging both children to him once again. Over their heads, he met the eyes of Fíli, who had frozen in the doorway, a single tear trailing down his face at his little nephew's plea._

_"No one can know the future, Fílan, nor what Mahal has planned for our lives. We will do all that we can to help your mother, but it may be that Mahal has more use for her with him and we will have to be strong and accept that."_

_Just as Durin himself had no idea of what lay ahead for himself and his brothers. Had he known, would he have quit? Thorin snorted to himself in disgust for the random inanity. Of course not! They were dwarrow, made of stone and meant to endure!_  
  
**First Age, 211**

"I, Durin, Lord of Khazad-dûm, welcome the sons of my six brothers to my kingdom! Enter!"

With a dramatic flourish of the king's hands, dwarrow pulled the cloth that had covered the openings high on the mountain's sides, bathing the room in light with their lord at the center. In front of him, the first representatives of the other six dwarrow kingdoms gazed around in awe, making Durin beam in pride at his people's accomplishments.

It had not even been two hundred years since he led them from Gundabad, from the place of his awakening, to start chipping away at the back of a rude rock cave. Less than a single dwarf's lifespan, and there was now a network of thirty rooms sheltering all from the winter weather, heated by the blaze of multiple forges working the iron pulled from two mines. Soon, there would be a true city within, one that any of his brothers would envy, yet it was not in Durin's make-up to dream so small. No, even the model in front of him, lit by the sun coming from above, was but a small portion of the kingdom he meant to build here, a city to hold not hundreds of dwarrow, but thousands! The greatest wealth of Middle Earth lay waiting to be discovered here, to forge the finest of weapons, the most beautiful of ornaments!

Yes, indeed, he had only just begun!

Still grinning broadly enough to make the muscles in his face actually ache, he turned then to his taller guest, sunlight highlighting the elf's dark hair with glints of purplish-blue, the same color as the armor he wore.

"Well?" Eöl, who, Durin had noted, made a habit of tweaking others to provoke them, simply smirked, making the dwarrow king roll his eyes, smile dimming just a bit. "Are you going to answer me, or stand there being as infuriating as those pain in the neck cousins of yours settling in the forests beyond?"

If the tall Teleri elf wished to play games, well, never let it be said that Durin backed down from any competition! Besides, it was just plain entertaining to rile the glower solitary elf who had wandered Middle Earth early on, making his living by his smithing. And such work it was, too! The king could not help admiring the armor that the other wore, a black metal that the dwarf actually did not recognize, though it was clearly very flexible. Eöl bristled in mock-outrage, as the king knew he would. There was no love lost between the Nandor or Dana elves and the Teleri, though neither were all that forthcoming as to why.

"No kin of mine! Just for that, I might not share the secret of the armor I wear with you after all!"

"Hmm..." Durin forced himself to remain still, not showing any hint of the curiosity that was all but eating him alive even as he absently noted the true malice in his friend's voice at the mention of the other elves. But it was not his place to interfere in such things. "Maybe I shouldn't say anything about this, then."

Opening his fist, the king displayed the small medallion he had just retrieved from his pocket, white metal gleaming with its own inner light. Mithril, they had named it, a pure silver like unto no other metal in all of Middle Earth. Durin chuckled as the elf's eyes widened fractionally before he caught himself and gave the dwarf a rueful grin.

"Well, now that we've thoroughly provoked one another, shall we join the others? Your vassals seem disinclined to wait upon their king's pleasure."

Durin merely grunted, waving the elf through the smaller secondary guard room, with its huge metal doors, and into the grand reception room beyond, where tables groaning under their loads of food were rapidly filling with dwarrow. The king waved several dwarrow who had finally noted the presence of their monarch back to their meal before turning to the elf.

"Never stand between dwarrow and the first mug of ale and leg of meat; no respect, the lot of them."

As his guest found a seat and both assauged their hunger, Durin considered the elf, not liking what he saw. Eöl had only visited a handful of times over the last hundred years, though that was due at least in part to the battles waging in the west. Melkor, the renegade Valar, had been contained for the moment, unable to locate the hidden stronghold of the elves at Gondolin, but that gave the dwarrow king no ease. Something was coming, something big...

"What did our dear Fingolfin want with you at Gondolin?"

Eöl interrupted his thoughts, sarcasm heavy in his naming of the High King of the Noldor. Durin grunted, rolling his eyes.

"Firebeard and Broadbeam have been aiding him with a few building projects, and he wanted another opinion of their work. As if they would do less than their finest, even if he is an elf. The watchtower will not soon fall, even to Melkor's beasts. Not unless he can create something that flies and can melt two foot thick granite, anyway."

"Be wary of that one, my friend. He and his kin are treacherous at the best of times."

Negligently waving a roasted turkey leg at the elf, Durin grinned nastily.

"And here, I thought all the Noldor were supposed to be wise and noble to a fault. You break my illusions, Eöl!"

The smile he received in answer was strained, the elf merely picking at his own meal. The dwarf barely heard the whispered response, as if it were not meant for his ears at all.

"Hardly... How I wish that were true."

******888*****

Later, Durin reflected that it was just as well he saw his friend but twice more after that day, for the elf had grown dark and bitter as the years passed. His forge work had long aided his kin against the scourge of the orcs, goblins, and other dark creatures, but had he ever been given the accolades he deserved for such? No! The Nandor were as stingy with their praise as their gold, even to one supposedly their own. When, in the year 400, word reached the dwarrow of Khazad-dûm that Eöl had been executed for the accidental slaying of his own wife, Durin wept, but he was not surprised. It was simply the first of the incidents that would strain the relations between elf and dwarf to the breaking point, held fast only by their mutual enemy, Melkor.

_**Nine Days Before Durin's Day** _

_Thorin paused in his recitation, smiling tenderly at the small body breathing softly in his lap before meeting the eyes of his audience. Kíli was stretched out upon the far edge of the bed, his shoulder serving as a pillow for his wife's head as she blinked tiredly, barely more awake then the dwarfling he held. Fíli and his wife were seated nearby, picking away at finger foods as they enjoyed this rare quiet evening together._

_Everyone had been overjoyed when Vestri actually woke earlier in the day, though all knew the pregnant 'dam was not out of danger by any means. Fora dwarf to be unconscious for almost three entire days... The healers were cautiously optimistic, allowing the family some privacy so long as Vestri was kept quiet and calm. At least Kili's grim, pale face had taken on greater animation, the spark reviving in his eyes as he pressed a kiss to his wife's sweaty hair._

_"I think that's enough for tonight,love. You need rest."_

_"And you don't?" Vestri shot back, leveling a glare at her husband, who swayed a bit as his body became used to standing once more. "Fíli, take him and if he won't sleep on his own, knock him over the head with the mug the sleep draught came in, would you?"_

_The older prince laughed softly as he straightened, a sleeping dwarfling in his good arm. Kílan barely stirred at his changed position, having fallen asleep well before even little Kala, whom Thorin still had. Austri handed an equally sound asleep Fílan to Thorin, unwilling to trust her pledge brother's steadiness. If the younger prince of Erebor had managed more than three hours' rest in the last three days, all of them would have been surprised._

_"I will, and gladly, Vestri." Fíli affirmed with a wicked chuckle. "Austri will stay with you tonight."_

_"I can stay!"_

_Kíli abruptly objected, red rimmed eyes widening as his mind finally tracked the discussion. There was sweat on his forehead and a sluggishness to his movements that concerned the king and Thorin knew he had slept only a handful of hours since the accident, all bad signs. Since their return, Kili's health had never been as robust as prior to the quest. He could not afford more sleepless nights when the hand on his cane already shook as he struggled to stay standing._

_"No!"_

_Several voices merged in denial, though the dwarf prince had ears for only one. Vestri gently squeezed the hand she still held, physically able to do little else. Even her voice was growing weaker as exhaustion set in._

_"Please, love. I will worry about you otherwise. Rest tonight. I will be here in the morning, eager to hear more of Thorin's history."_

_Thorin held back his snort of amusement at the ease with which the redhead manipulated his sister-son. The girl was decidedly Glóin's daughter, but with all of her 'dam's legendary wiles. Not even sorrowful brown eyes would earn a reprieve, though Kíli tried it faithfully anyway. Finally, the king stepped in, shoving the brunette's shoulder with an elbow as Fili used his splinted arm to steer his brother forcefully to the door._

_"Let her sleep, Kíli. That is an order."_

**First Age, 502**

Durin the Deathless stared at the Firebeard in astonishment at the sheer audacity the other showed, coming here with such a request. Though he did not have much use for the elves, who seemed to believe themselves superior to all others who walked Middle Earth, he also had no cause to actively hate them. Well, except those who had a hand in the death of his friend, Eöl, though that one should have known better than to try locking up his wife and son that way. Maeglin, the son of Eöl, however, had forever earned the anger of the dwarrow, and Durin had sworn never to step foot in Gondolin again while he lived.

Though the Noldor were not directly related to the problem at hand, for once, as Thingol was of the Sindarin lords. A snooty bunch, to be sure, but they had maintained friendship with the dwarrow of the west, even as the trouble in Gondolin led to the breaking of ties elsewhere. Though friendship was perhaps not the ideal word to describe their relationship. Greed would encapsulate it better, Durin mused, glowering at the messenger, who happened to be his brother Firebeard's youngest son.

"You would have me lead my people against those who have only avenged the wrong wrought upon them by your kinsmen? You dare much."

The messenger, who had not even the simple courtesy to give his name though he was known to many here, straightened in outrage, exactly as the king wished. If the young dwarf would not obey simple politeness, he would not be treated with any, especially as he had the gall to bring armed guards into Durin's presence with him, as if the dwarf Father might prove a threat. Besides, Durin's own spies had already reported to him the truth of the matter, but he wished to see how the messenger had been told to present the tale. Lying to the King of Khazad-dûm and eldest of Mahal's children would be a great offense, and enough to justify his refusal.

"We ask that you aid us in avenging our people! We built Thingol's city, taught his inept smiths, supplied him with weapons with which to save his people from the twisted creatures of the North, and he repaid the Khazad by refusing a simple price, the least of things beside all we had given, and then sought to slay those who had come in peace to his own halls!"

Durin didn't bother to rein in his temper, shooting to his feet with a roar that shook the very lanterns hanging in his great hall, the tainted truth being uttered by those he had called kin twisting his stomach with disgust.

"You asked what you knew would never be granted, and then used that refusal as justification to kill a king! Blatantly, in his own Hall! Your king was warned not to covet what he could not have. The Silmarils bring naught but grief to any who dare to do so!"

The messenger and his two escorts took several steps backward in fright, and the king resettled himself in the basalt throne, regarding them as one would children whose actions had vastly disappointed a long suffering parent. Defiantly, the lad had the audacity to snarl out a rebuttal.

"Your brothers' people need your aid, Durin King. Broadbeam calls the families to war. Would you dare to refuse your suffering kin?"

Durin had to fight himself to keep from snapping the insolent pup's head off for that one. But anger quickly gave way to other, deeper, emotions. By citing only Broadbeam's name, the messenger had subtly reminded Durin of the death of the lad's father, Firebeard, thirty years prior. A death that Durin might have prevented had he joined the hosts against Morgoth, as his western brothers urged, but none of them had expected the fearsome winged beasts called dragons. It was a guilt he would carry unabated to the end of days, but the intended manipulation served only to flare his anger anew. This time, he would not allow himself to indulge in it. His next words were spoken with all the sorrow of what he knew was to come, though it hurt him more than they would ever know.

"You suffer and die because of your own greed. I will not answer the call of my brothers' children for such a war, but offer my halls as sanctuary after you have mined the out the foul seam you follow, should any survive. You have doomed yourselves. Go."

As the other dwarrow scurried from the hall, his wife of many years placed a hand upon his arm. Durin closed his eyes, slumping as he leaned into the reassuring touch, the weight of in-numerous lives upon his shoulders. How many dwarrow had he just doomed to death? Had there been any other choice?

"You were overly harsh with him."

Durin snorted, placing his own callused hand over hers, some of the suppressed anger re-sparking.

"Not as rough as I would have liked to have been, Thís. Broadbeam knows better, but his grief for Firebeard has made him reckless. You notice he did not deign to come himself, sending a child instead. He knew what I would be forced to say. The last thing we need as a race is to be drawn into the petty squabbles of the Eldar. Backbiting, kin slaying, lying, good for nothing-"

"Durin!"

"Well, they are!"

He retorted, sounding more like his youngest grandchild then the mature dwarrow he was. Somehow, he had an uneasy feeling that they had not heard the last of this mess, even though those who actually killed the elven king were in turn destroyed by an alliance of elves and Ents. Walking, talking trees. Whoever heard of such a thing or thought it a good idea to have their firewood talk back?

Alright, maybe he did have cause to hate the elves.

_**Eight Days before Durin's Day** _

_**Feast of the Nobles** _

_Laughter rippled through the hall at Durin's last thought, even among the elves. Tales of Durin the Deathless and his other incarnations would traditionally be told each night until the holiday itself. Thorin sat back, wishing he could have spent another evening with his family, but the celebrations had begun, unable to be delayed any longer. Many of his guests had begun grumbling at the initial delays caused by the accident and the tardiness of some of the invited; if he had not ordered the feasts to begin, he might have faced an uprising!_

_Around the great room, the light of hundreds of candles in the huge crystal chandeliers lit up the colorful garb of ladies and lords. As the chatter started, Thorin could hear at least three different languages and many more regional dialects, the various accents tangling with one another. Nobles representing every kingdom, fiefdom, and minor city-state in both the west and east were gathered here, save one._

_Thranduil, who would not have found the story's end amusing at all, had he graced them, the undeserving, with his noble and perfect presence. The mere thought of the snooty forest king had Thorin's teeth grinding in anger. Most likely, Thranduil would arrive just before Durin's Day itself, a petty excuse on his lips to give the intended insult a gilded frame. He would get away with it, too, knowing the dwarrow could not justify a war against the Greenwood for such trivialities, as insulting as they were. Especially as few elves remaining in Middle Earth were his elder, and only one could be counted his superior._

_Círdan, the Shipwright, whom all deferred to, no matter their race, for the simple reality that he did not take sides lightly. Thranduil had undoubtedly dismissed him as a consideration, knowing the older elf never left the Grey Havens. Thorin had never met the worthy elf, though the first Durin had, once, as had the fourth, so it was with considerable surprise that he heard a vaguely recollected voice call out to him._

_"Lord Durin! I am pleased to greet you once more and ask forgiveness for my tardiness. It has been long since I traveled this land. I had forgotten how immense it is." The bearded elf bowed his head respectfully before penetrating grey eyes pierced through all the protective layers the king shrouded his mind in. "You have overcome that which consumed many who would have counted themselves stronger then you, walking through the tempering fire and washed clean by the ancient waters. I am pleased that Celebrimbor's opinion has proven true, though it took overly long, even for one of the lesser races."_

_All Thorin could do was stare at this most unusual and ancient being for a minute before huffing irritably. Beards did not belong on elves, period! He looked like a spear converted into a mop. Badly. His answer came not from Thorin Oakenshield, but one long since gone back to the stone._

_"Círdan. You've been staring at the sea too long if that's the best you can do. You sound like a drunk priest."_

_Several nearby elves gasped, scandalized, but Círdan allowed a rare slow smile to crack his solemn face before leveling a glare at the chortling twin sons of Elrond._

_"As neither Galadriel nor Elrond are here any longer, it has fallen to me to uphold your expectations of elves that is all."_

_"You're badly out of practice." Thorin judged bluntly, handing the tall being a glass of wine. "Leave the mysterious insults and outrageous behavior to Thranduil, he's much better at it."_

_It felt decidedly odd, to banter with an elf he had only just met in such a manner, but something deep within felt a tie to this odd being. Thorin sighed, not bothering to fight the feelings he knew came from one of the other Durins. Time had taught him the futility of resisting the parts of himself that were still in many ways mysterious and foreign. Instead, he tried to think of them as friends that he knew well enough to know what they would say in a given situation, as he did Balin. How many times had he sworn over the last twenty one years that he heard his old friend muttering in his ear, chastising or encouraging, as needed? So, this elf was a friend, as much as the idea would have once repulsed the king._

_"What is truly your problem?"_

_The elf shrugged, downing the wine in a single gulp and depositing the glass on the empty tray of a passing servant._

_"I do not care to be underground and so far from the ocean, that is all. Nor was I pleased to hear just now that Thranduil's absence had delayed the timing of the traditional ceremonies. Now I must stay within the mountain rather than having the leisure to travel from Lorien for each." Círdan's lips thinned in annoyance, beard bristling as if it were a separate living thing. "Rest assured that I will be having strident words with our noble King of the Greenwood when he deigns to deliver unto us his august presence."_

_Thorin grinned in anticipatory satisfaction, deciding there might be some advantage to being friends with certain elves after all._

_"Excellent. May I await an invitation to be included in that audience?"_

_The Shipwright quirked an eyebrow up, amused at the malicious glee displayed by the long-suffering king._

_"It would be my pleasure, Lord Durin."_

_Thorin rubbed his hands together, making those nearest him laugh, before turning away. At least one elf would receive the comeuppance they so richly deserved in the days ahead!_


End file.
